Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

“Of course you’ll go riding with her,” Aunt Agatha said, swatting him lightly upon the arm.

Following an excellent luncheon, he’d decamped with the dowager duchess to the study to report on his progress. She’d inquired about Miss Randall, and he hadn’t meant to mention her invitation, but it had somehow slipped out.

“I really don’t think -”

“Tut. Besides, you’ve forgotten the Darton Hall decorations.” She gave him a reproving look.

“Ah, yes.” He’d known there was something.

“It could be a most efficient outing,” she said. “You can be on the lookout for likely patches of greenery while also entertaining our guests.”

“ Your guests,” he reminded her. “You might have consulted me.”

She waved her hand. “I consulted your brother, which seemed sufficient.”

Mention of Christopher brought his hackles up, as usual. “ He suggested our guests?”

“Lady Fortnum and her daughters, most particularly,” Aunt Agatha said, with a knowing look.

Of course. Philip recalled Miss Randall laughing gaily at Christopher’s antics at the Hunt Ball. Christopher meant to court her, clearly, and ensuring she was invited to Darton for the holidays was the first step. But, true to form, he’d been distracted by other pleasures, leaving Miss Randall cooling her heels in the countryside.

Thoughtless—and typical.

Firming his lips, Philip nodded at his aunt. “Very well. As my brother isn’t here to perform his duty, I’ll go riding with the Misses Randall.”

“You think too much about duty,” she said. “Go out and have fun, for once. But keep watch for holly and ivy, and pine boughs.”

“Your Grace.” He bowed over her hand and turned to go.

“And mistletoe,” she called after him, amusement lacing her voice.

He made no reply to this frivolous suggestion. He’d no intention of scattering aids to Christopher’s mischief about the house. Greenery to adorn Darton Hall was all well and good, but he drew the line at mistletoe.

To Catherine’s surprise, the duke joined her and Abby on their ride. A groom accompanied them at a suitable distance as Lord Darton led them into the forest surrounding Darton Hall.

“I do like the woods in winter,” Catherine said as they rode on a wide track beneath the bare branches.

“It’s peaceful, I suppose,” the duke said.

“It’s not, though. It’s…subtle.”

“Subtle?” Lord Darton glanced at her curiously.

“Yes.” She inhaled. “You have to pay closer attention to catch its beauty. Smell the wet leaves, not the flowers. Catch a glimpse of a robin darting between the trees for a bit of color.”

“I thought you’d prefer the more obvious seasons,” he said.

“Oh, I do.” She shot him a grin, glad to have pulled him into conversation. He was so prickly, yet she’d caught glimpses of an interesting person behind that coolly cultivated fa?ade. “But that’s not to say the difference can’t be appreciated. Which season do you like best?”

He frowned faintly. “I’ve not given the matter much consideration.”

“Yes, yes, always too busy with your responsibilities.” She kept her voice gentle, however.

It hadn’t escaped her notice that Lord Darton took his duties quite seriously. On balance, she supposed that was better for the estates under his care than ignoring them entirely, as many lords of the ton seemed to do.

Including the duke’s brother.

Still, one could be responsible without becoming an utter stick.

“I prefer the spring,” Abby said from her place beside her sister. “It’s the prettiest.”

“It is, indeed,” the duke said.

He didn’t take the opportunity to make some flirtatious remark about pretty girls liking pretty seasons, Catherine noted. Did Lord Darton even know how to flirt?

She’d continue teasing him and see if she could loosen his stays a bit. Metaphorically speaking. It was the best course of amusement at hand, until his relatives arrived.

“Since you appreciate the winter forest,” he said, “you may help me look for greenery to deck Darton Hall. Johnson here”—he nodded at the groom behind them— “can note the location and come back later with the servants to collect it.”

“We passed a holly tree already,” Abby said. “I know, because it nearly snagged my skirts.”

“It didn’t have any berries, though,” Catherine said, having noticed the same tree. “We definitely need berries. Holly without that bit of red is hardly deserving of the season. It must be festive .”

The duke shot her an unreadable glance, and she narrowed her eyes at him in a mock glare.

“Do you take issue with festivity, Your Grace?” she asked. “You don’t strike me as a complete puritan, but perhaps I’m mistaken.”

“There is a time and place for such things,” he said in a repressive tone.

“But it’s the holidays!” Abby said, leaning past Catherine to look at him. “Surely the most festive time of the year.”

“If one is constantly celebrating,” he said, “then the very act loses all meaning.”

Oh heavens. Lord Darton was an unspeakably lost cause, after all.

Catherine sighed and shook her head. “Neither my sister nor I are suggesting a frenzied state of revelry day and night, Your Grace. But one might unbend a little during Christmas.”

He merely regarded her, his expression cold. She stared right back, challenging him to argue.

Their standoff was broken by Abby’s exclamation of glee.

“Look,” she cried, pointing into the trees ahead, “holly with berries!”

The duke looked away, and Catherine let out a sniff. She’d count that as her victory.

“Take note, Johnson,” he called over his shoulder. “And if you come across ivy and pine boughs, gather those up, too, and deliver the whole lot to the housekeeper for Christmas Eve decorations.”

They rode in silence a bit more, and Catherine let her annoyance with Lord Darton drain away. The man couldn’t help being an insufferable stuffed shirt, any more than his brother could stop being an irrepressible rakehell.

The trees thinned and they came out to a meadow, the brown grasses bent into hummocks. On the far side lay the remains of an orchard, the few stalwart apple trees draped with green balls of mistletoe.

“Aha,” she said. “There’s one more thing your man needs to collect.”

Lord Darton glanced at the ground. “Soggy grasses? I thought you had better taste in decor that that, Miss Randall.”

She frowned at him, then spotted the glint in his eye. Why, was the Duke of Darton-on-Rye teasing her? How remarkable.

“Indeed.” She nodded solemnly. “It’s an ancient Yuletide custom to festoon the doorknobs with sedge, don’t you know?”

He looked at her for a moment, lips twitching. And then he smiled, and his entire face transformed. His chiseled lips softened, his dark blue eyes warmed, and, most shockingly of all, she saw he had a dimple to the left of his mouth. Lord Darton went from being middling-passable to one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, and she inhaled sharply at the change.

Their gazes caught and held, but this was not the stony challenge of earlier. No, this was something that made Catherine’s breath flutter oddly in her chest.

“Are you all right?” Abby reached over and touched her arm, breaking the spell, and this time it was Catherine’s turn to look away.

“Certainly,” she replied. Her cheeks felt flushed, but she rallied and gestured across the meadow. “Look there. Mistletoe.”

Abby let out a squeak that set her horse dancing a few steps to the side. “Perfect!”

“Mistletoe?” The duke’s tone was back to disapproving. “I don’t think that will be a necessary addition to the greenery.”

“Come now.” Catherine felt like she was coaxing a feral animal that had scurried into hiding—albeit one with fangs and claws. “Every ceiling won’t be festooned with garlands of the stuff, if that’s your worry. Just one piece, tucked into a kissing bough. Subtly.”

He gave her a frosty look. “While some households might embrace such inherent improprieties, I assure you, Darton Hall does not.”

“It’s not just for those courting,” Abby chimed in. “But for anyone at odds to embrace under in peace and goodwill and leave their enmity behind.”

“I am aware of the history,” Lord Darton said dryly.

“Then take mistletoe in that spirit,” Catherine said, “rather than a wanton one.”

The word seemed to hang in the air between them in a plume of misty breath. Wanton .

His expression went from ice to fire as he gazed at her, his eyes suddenly smoldering with promises. She set one gloved hand to her throat, breathless. She’d encountered that look a time or two after a stolen kiss, and expected it from the rakes of the ton . But not from the oh-so-proper Duke of Darton-on-Rye. Coming from him, it made her feel as though she’d just stepped into a fire.

She swallowed, glad to be seated on horseback, as her knees were suddenly a bit weak.

The duke gave himself a little shake and turned away.

“Very well,” he said, looking across the meadow at the trees in question. “One sprig. But that is all .”